Chapter 1

1

RAINA

“ G ods’ death, Raina. I could kiss you right now.”

Alexus sits on the other side of the fire, half-hidden by soft swirls of gray smoke as he gnaws on a roasted crow’s wing. Even from here, I can see those full lips, shiny from the fat of dark meat. He drinks from a moonberry root and looks at me over the dancing embers.

“For killing the bird,” he adds.

“Of course,” I sign. “For killing the bird.”

My cheeks warm—and not from the flames flickering between us. I know full well he’s only relieved to have a bite to eat, a blazing fire, and a place to rest our weary bones. I’m not sure why part of me wishes it was something more.

Curled up inside his cloak, I tip back a moonberry root and empty it before placing its husk in a pile with the others I’ve drained. I’m thankful for the nourishing liquid that quenches my thirst, but also for the roots, fleshy with thick skin. If we clean out the pulp, they’ll make excellent storage for the berries, providing protection against the cold. Maybe, along with the berries, they’ll keep us from starving, which I’m sure was Nephele’s intent.

I lean against the log at my back and let out the longest, deepest sigh. The God Knife lies buried under a tuft of moss beside me, and Mother’s bowl sits on a rock near the fire, handfuls of snow melting inside. They’re the two things that symbolize what’s been digging at me ever since we sat down to eat. I want to check on the Eastlanders and the Prince, and on Helena, too. But now, I even feel brave enough to look for Finn. I need the closure of knowing what happened to him, especially after everything I went through with Hel.

As for the God Knife, I can’t let go of the niggle in my mind that perhaps I should tell Alexus it exists. That level of honesty with him should feel so foreign to me, but it doesn’t anymore. Instead, I’m left wondering if maybe he knows something about such things. Maybe he can provide insight.

Or maybe telling him will complicate things further.

I’m so tired—too tired to get into that tonight. It’s a kind of tiredness my body has never experienced but that I have no right to complain about. Before we got the fire going, I healed the frostnip on our fingers, and after Alexus prepared the crow and set it to roasting, we washed our hands and faces and even took turns cleaning up a bit more intimately behind a tree. When that was done, he minded the bird while I healed my feet and the horses’ minor cuts and ice-shod hooves. Even those small acts of healing made me tired.

Though I feel rejuvenated now, it’s hard to feel at ease. Here I lie with food in my stomach, stretched out on warm grass that has no right to exist inside this frozen forest, while a band of Witch Walkers works tirelessly to keep this construct intact, lest the remaining Eastlanders invade their home like they did the village. Then there’s Helena, trapped like an animal and suffering the terrors of a demon alone in the cold. The heat in her body had to have come from the wraith, so she’s most likely safe from freezing, but I still worry.

I can’t help Hel or Winterhold’s witches unless I’m whole, so I try my hardest to shut out the guilt I feel for these hours of reprieve.

Dropping my head back, I close my eyes and focus on how wonderful the heat of the fire feels, the way it chased away all the numbness and replaced it with life. But a white wolf howls, and I open them immediately and sit up, the muscles along the back of my neck tight.

I can’t stop worrying about seeing the Prince of the East again, or being flooded with memories of our burning, dying village, or images of Helena fighting her demon, or dead men buried under ice and snow. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sleep again.

“Helena is out in the open,” I sign when Alexus looks up at me from cleaning his hands. “There are wolves.”

“She’s fine, I swear.” His eyes are ever the anchor, calming the flutter of worry inside my chest. “Her scent alone is enough to send a pack of wolves in the other direction. But also, my scent is all over her. It’s the only reason the wolves haven’t bothered us. They know to keep their distance. She’ll be safe. And we’re safe.” He stands and gestures to the ground beside me. “May I?”

I nod, and he sits with his back against the log, long legs bent at the knee.

“You should sleep. You barely slept while we were traveling.” He motions toward the fire where the gambeson hangs on two sticks. “It’ll be dry now and so warm. It makes a right bed, if you remember.”

How can I do anything but grin at him like a fool? There’s so much to think about, and yet he’s worried about me sleeping and having a ‘right’ bed.

“I remember,” I sign.

It would be impossible to forget.

Before, I wondered how Nephele could be friends with Alexus, but now it isn’t hard to imagine. I can’t say I understand it, why he takes people from the vale and why they don’t hate him for it, but I can’t seem to hate him either, much as I wanted to before all of this happened.

I reach across the small space between us and take his hand in mine. There’s a bone-deep knowing when it comes to him, and so I’m not surprised when the lines crossing his palm call to me. I’m sure they’re not calling to me the way palms called to Mena, but the need to see them closer is real.

I trace Alexus’s lines into memory, reveling when he shivers at my touch. I’ve no idea what they mean, but I wonder.

“Do you read palms?” he asks. “We’ve a lady at Winterhold, from Penrith, who does.”

“No,” I sign. “Not a clue.”

“Minds?”

I laugh and press another no into his palm.

He winks and smiles, then lets his head fall back as I tickle his skin. “That’s probably a good thing. Though I bet you could if you tried.”

Funny how he worries about me knowing what he’s feeling and thinking. First, he asked if I read people’s emotions, and now this.

I wish I could read him—his emotions, his mind, his palms. Mena always said the lines of the hands define who we are. She labeled me well enough, calling me an idealist with volatile tendencies and someone who struggles with a mundane existence. She called me impulsive, impatient, and imaginative, a restless being who needs freedom to flourish and love to thrive.

I think she was right, but I fear those last two requirements for peace might be impossible anymore.

Alexus exhales and relaxes, as though my touch is all he needs to unwind. Though we’ve been pressed against one another for days, I would be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to touch him outside the mode of sheer survival, just like it felt good when we touched at the stream. His hands are big and calloused, scarred in the way of a swordsman, strong and warm in ways I shouldn’t be thinking about.

Delirium. It must be.

But maybe it isn’t. Because ever since his words before we left Helena, I can’t stop ruminating about how much I do trust Alexus, how I knew that I trusted him the moment he asked me to as we stood in the snow. Trust is earned, and though he hasn’t had very much time to do so, he’s only proven himself as unfailing. If I had to imagine what his palm would tell me, it would be that.

Unfailing.

When I’m grieving, he provides comfort. When I’m angry, he lets me rage but tempers my fury. When I’m frightened, he’s right there beside me, facing whatever comes my way. And sometimes tossing pebbles to scare me.

I stifle a smile. My mind is in tangles over him.

Shaking my head, I snap out of the spell and rest his hand in my lap. He still has a little frostbite in places and blisters from the reins, so I set to healing him.

He winces and flinches and even hisses a time or two as I weave the tattered threads of his flesh back together. Eventually, he settles, watching my hands as I sing and work. Such a mystery, this man, though he also feels like an open book. Perhaps there are pages and lines I simply haven’t had the time to read yet, chapters to lose myself inside. And perhaps I shouldn’t want to.

But gods, I do.

Once the strands of his injuries are entwined, I ask, “Any more wounds?”

He twists his mouth up to one side as though considering if he should tell me something.

“No shame, just show me. Is it your feet?”

He barks out a laugh, as if what I said were funny, but I meant it. My toes looked horrendous, black-tipped and covered in blisters from too-small shoes. Feet are bad enough without all that damage.

“Frostbite?” I spell out, stifling a laugh myself. “On your toes?”

“No,” he laughs again. “Somehow, my shameful feet are fine. But this—” he hooks his thumb in the hem of his tunic and tugs the fabric up his long torso “—is another story.”

I swallow hard. Not just because awful scrapes zigzag from navel to collarbone, but because I did not need to see this much of him right now. Sometimes I wish my face wasn’t so expressive.

This is one of those times.

“When did this happen?” I ask, distracting myself from the dark dusting of hair on his chest and the even darker trail that disappears inside his britches. But I remember when he had to receive these marks, and he sees the recollection on my face.

“Damn thing dragged me a good ways. Rocks and roots and sticks and gods know what else lay beneath the snow and upturned soil. It’ll heal fine on its own, though. No need for you to exhaust yourself even more for a few scratches.”

I shove my stirring feelings aside and shift to my knees. More than scratches. Some are deep, probably painful.

“It should be easy,” I tell him, which isn’t a lie. They’re not complex wounds, but they’ve been there for days now, and they don’t look good. Even though I feel like I could sleep for a week, eating and drinking have replenished much of my strength, so I begin my work.

His strands are becoming so familiar, and each time I tinker with healing him, the tiny darkness of his stolen death hums and churns and sparks, a little lightning storm inside my heart. It’s strange, that connection, that reaching out of energies, but I find I like it, feeling attached to someone other than myself.

It doesn’t take long to heal his scrapes. I decide to heal the cut still marring his lip too—the wound I gave him. When it’s over, I relax and open my eyes.

A yawn awaits, but my mind shuts it down, instead opting to send my hand straight to Alexus’s body before I can think to rein myself in.

I dance my fingertips lightly up his healed skin, where a shallow cut traveled over his rippled stomach to the bottom of his chest only moments ago. There are scars I couldn’t see before. Strange markings that remind me of runes, raised and rough like someone carved into him with a hot knife.

His midsection flinches at my touch, and he shifts his hips. “Raina.”

I freeze at the sound of his husky voice, stopping my inspection over his pounding heart.

Only it wasn’t an inspection. It was an exploration. My hand caressing, not analyzing.

When I look up at him, my pulse throbs so hard it’s all I hear. Those green eyes stare back at me, dark and promising, and I can no longer make myself care that he’s the Witch Collector. All I can see is the man who’s been with me for days now, the man who carried me from a fiery village, who washed blood from my hands, who thought of me and me alone when he woke from near-death, a man who kept me warm while he froze.

I see a man. Nothing more and nothing less.

And I want something from him, though I can’t tell if I only crave the comfort of closeness or if I’m searching for something more.

He trails his fingertips along my jaw. “It would be best if you didn’t look at me like that.”

I lean closer and lick my lips. “Like what?” I sign.

He gives me a piercing look. “Like you want me to kiss you. Because I will.”

Softly, I rub my thumb over his healed lip. He slides his hand into my hair, fisting the roots, a pleasant invitation shining in his eyes.

Desire tumbles down my spine and pools low in my belly when he tightens his grip. I don’t move. I just hold his stare, a challenge that I hope I’m up for.

I’m fully aware I’m testing any resolve either of us might’ve erected concerning one another, but the barriers I’ve assembled in defense of hatred no longer seem necessary when it comes to Alexus Thibault. I know what I want, even if I shouldn’t want it. Even if I’ll regret it later. And right now, I want his mouth on mine—delirious from exhaustion or not.

I want to forget. To find some sort of peace—even if only for a little while.

Alexus slides his hand down my side to the back of my knee. In one swift movement, he drags me onto him, my legs straddling his hips. He removes the dagger and belt from my thigh, tossing them aside, and tips the hood of his cloak from my head, untying the laces at my throat. His fingertips forge a fiery path across my collarbone, over my shoulder.

When the cloak falls away, leaving me sitting in leathers and the remains of my dress, a chill courses over me. The air is a mixture of the surrounding cold, the blazing heat of our fire, and the warm comfort of a meadow. It makes my skin feel alive and sensitive, hyper-aware of his every subtle touch.

With his torso still bared to my eye and his hands resting on my hips, Alexus stares up at me like I’m some kind of enchantment. Hesitation dances in his gaze, too, and I’m not sure why.

“You are so tempting,” he says. “But you need to know something.” He takes my hand. Presses it to his chest. “There is darkness inside me, Raina. Darkness you will not like.”

I trail my palm over the curve of thick muscle, across his hard nipple, and down his stomach, making him flinch again.

“There is darkness inside me too,” I sign. “Perhaps our darknesses can be friends.”

He does have darkness. I’ve seen it, like I’m seeing it now, moving like a phantom behind his eyes. I heard the wraith, too. I know Alexus has secrets.

And I don’t care. More than anything, I want him to touch me, and when he finally does—when he runs those deadly hands up my thighs to my waist, traveling along my ribs to my breasts—the pressure of his grip sends burning desire tearing through my blood.

Alexus folds his arm around me and draws me down, wrapping his fist in my hair again. I plant my hands on the log behind him, but he tugs me closer, until there’s no space between us. I can feel every rigid inch of him, and he feels divine. It’s a heady moment, making me long for so much more than a kiss.

He brushes his mouth against mine, a whisper-kiss, the contact so gentle yet so painfully forbidden, if only by me. Still, I quiver down to my toes when his lips ghost across mine, like he’s savoring every curve, preparing to devour.

He meets my eyes again, another flash of hesitance, of too much thought, but the battle waged in his mind ends, and he truly kisses me.

I don’t expect the raw hunger that ignites at the sweet taste of him, but in the time it takes my heart to flutter, I sink my hands into his dark hair, and it’s me who’s devouring. I can’t think around anything other than this yearning inside me, this rush, the way his heat and hardness tempt me beyond all rationalization, the way his tongue sliding against mine makes me gasp.

I was supposed to kidnap him, not kiss him. Not want him so badly I can barely breathe.

We become a tangle of roaming hands and kisses, any indecision about the situation gone. I tug Alexus’s shirt over his head and marvel at the sight of him. Those broad, round shoulders and arms that could hold a woman for days. Then I dip my mouth to his chest, dragging my teeth over his firm, scarred flesh in a soft bite. He groans, a sound of ecstasy that sets fire to my senses.

I’ve hated being helpless these last days, feeling powerless. But right now, I feel like a god.

Skillfully, he unthreads the laces at my back, one by one, kissing me all the while until the garment loosens. I sit up, strip free of the bodice and my thin undergarment, and toss them both aside. My witch’s marks glow in the firelight, shades of gold, crimson, violet, and silver.

Alexus rests his hands at my waist, stopping me from returning to him. He skims his warm palms over my naked skin, admiring my marks, my curves, every dip and hollow. My body responds, tender parts of me tightening, aching, throbbing, so keenly aware of his eyes on me, his hands learning what takes my breath.

He’s breathing so hard, his lips slightly swollen, his hair mussed. It’s a lovely sight that I tell myself only makes me swoon because I need relief only he can give. This has nothing to do with anything more than that. Nothing to do with my heart.

Nothing at all.

“Gods, Raina.” He closes his hand over my breast in a possessive grasp. “I want you.”

I don’t intend to make him wait.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man—been with Finn— but instinct becomes my guiding light. I lean down, pressing my naked body against Alexus’s bare chest, and trail my tongue along the column of his throat. In response, he whispers my name, a choked, desperate sound, like he can’t take much more when we’ve only just begun.

I love the way my name sounds falling from his lips. I want to make him say it a hundred times more. I want him to beg me to kiss him, beg me to take him, beg me to never stop.

He grazes his rough palms over my shoulders, curves those long fingers around my ribs, and I arch against him, my skin tingling when his touch slides down my back and over my hips. Digging his fingers into my backside, he presses all that hardness between my legs, making me shiver, making me want.

This is desperation. Desire so enthralling that I roll my hips over and over, demanding and greedy, feeling like I might die if I don’t feel him inside me soon.

He slips his hand between us, tugging at the ties of my trousers. Breaking our kiss, I lift my hips for him, and he slides his hand inside the leathers.

I close my eyes on a gasp, letting him touch me where I want more of him. He’s deft with that hand, and in seconds, I’m climbing toward the point of no return.

This shouldn’t be happening. It shouldn’t be the Witch Collector drawing such damp heat from my body, making my mind numb to anything but the ache he’s stoking like a fire. That thought evaporates as he presses his teeth into my shoulder, returning my soft bite from earlier, and dips his hungry mouth to my breast. I move against his touch, chasing the promise that lives in the feverish swirl of his tongue, the rough tip of his finger.

He drags his teeth from my breast and kisses a scorching path to my ear.

“Don’t stop. Take what you need.” His lips move hot at my throat, and then close over my mouth, swallowing my sighs.

That feels like a dangerous invitation. What I need isn’t his hand, as good as it feels.

I stop and take a breath, gathering myself enough to think beyond the desire clouding my mind. We might not live through these next days—this refuge won’t last forever. This could be my last time to feel this sort of pleasure.

His touch falls still. “What’s wrong?”

I pull his hand from my leathers.

“Did I do someth—” I lean down and kiss him, temporarily silencing him as I reach between us and unlace his britches. “Raina...” My name drifts in the form of a warm breath across my lips. “This isn’t—” I slip my hand inside his pants and touch his silky, hard length. “Fuck, yes,” he groans, pushing his cock into my touch.

His breathing hitches, but in all truth, when I slide my hand down a little more, it’s me who falters.

Alexus Thibault is not an average man— in any way . Part of me shivers with nerves at the thought of being with him intimately while another part thrills at the idea of having all this throbbing hardness inside me.

He cups my face and stares into my eyes. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do my damnedest to give it to you.”

I hesitate, only because I’m a little intimidated. Lust and intrigue win out, however, as I close my fingers around his cock and squeeze.

His eyes flutter, half-closing in bliss before he blinks them open and takes a deep inhale. Again, he looks at me, sliding his hand down to encircle my throat with a gentle, yet promising touch. “Are you telling me you want me to fuck you?”

My heart beats so fast, slamming against my chest, and hearing him talk like that only makes it pound harder.

After the mustering of a little bravery, I nod and trail my fingers up his shaft. A drop of slickness has pearled at his tip, and when I run my thumb over him, smoothing the wetness over his swollen head, he flinches, and his cock twitches in my hand.

“Gods’ death, you are torture on a man’s resolve.” He draws me down for another mind-bending kiss before pulling away to speak. “If we do this, you have to swear that you won’t hate me afterward. For any reason.”

I cross my heart and stroke him again, eliciting a groan. And finally, I see it: the decision in his eyes, and the hunger in his gaze.

I’m forced to let go of him and brace myself as he runs his hand up my side and captures my breast in his grip again. Kneading and squeezing, he rubs my nipple between his fingers until the sweetest sensation zings through my body, straight to my clit.

When I gasp, he smiles with one side of his lovely mouth. “I like taking your breath. I’m going to do it so many times tonight. Are you ready for that?”

I’m not. Yet I am.

I’m terrified. Yet I cannot wait.

“So ready,” I sign.

Alexus slides his hands down my back and into my leathers, pushing the fabric over my ass, his smile brightening, something I would’ve never believed could light up my world, and yet I can’t stop looking at him.

“Let’s get you naked,” he whispers.